Because I have been loading these dad stories onto my blog ever so slowly and with huge time interspersals, I have kept a list of what I have included on this site, so, hopefully, I do not duplicate. I pulled a "Count Gregory" story that was clearly written a very long time ago. I had this feeling that it was one on the list, so I checked. Sure enough in July 2019 I entered a Count Gregory story. I decided to pull it up and noticed that it is a different version. In fact, the one currently in my hand appears to be the "original" and dad did a fairly substantial edit, substantial enough that it seems largely a different story. A little background. Charlie was the man for whom dad worked through the 1950s and half-way through the 60s, at a baby photography studio, with its main office and warehouse in Brooklyn. Dad never did any selling as far as I know. When I was a kid, I knew he did some sort of managerial job, but I never knew, and still actually do not. But he always looked like it was something important. He had the continental style of a Count Gregory. He was handsome; he was both an autodidact and a college graduate on the GI bill. In 1965, when he was already in his forties, Charlie closed the business. Dad had to find another job, which he did, ultimately with the City of New York, and did well, though he always thought too little of himself. This is a true, or not true tale of interactions that occurred when he was working with Charlie. My father's nickname was "Buddy" when he was a young man, and through my young years, to the family and old friends, but later he discarded that name for a diminution of his own.
So, here is the original Count Gregory. My dad dedicated it to his old friend, passingly mentioned in the body of the story, Irving Elkin.
In 1956, Charlie exclaimed, "The answer is right in front of my nose: Buddy Gochis!
Arthur, his manager of many years had quit to go into business for himself, the Eastern distributor of what a Japanese exporter calls, "our most hot selling product," which was nothing more than dinnerware of various sizes with a photographic emulsion on the surface.
"Buddy Gochis," Charlie reiterates. "And he has a college education."
Now, Charlie probably had little comprehension of matters esoteric, like college. I do not believe he made great effort to provide this experience for his children, although his wife was a graduate of a name college.
He was, however, astute. I am a good manager, and he bought cheap.
I spent nine years in an atmosphere foreign to my nature. It is probable that fate has relegated me to associations I would rather not have, for sins in some previous lifetime. Take, for example, the need to regale the "high average salesmen with emoluments such was "The Monday Night Fights," followed by a seance at the "Famous" a dairy restaurant on Eastern Parkway. Charlie usually ate too much, got dyspepsia, and blamed it on the soup, with farfel, which topped an extraordinary feast.
I have often thought that if someone had spoken aloud the vocative, "Open Sesame" in these environs, a huge rock would have magically rolled aside, revealing a treasure worthy of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate.
Among the charter members of these Monday night amenities was one of my brothers-in-law, a top "proof-passer", not above overcharging and adjusting the deposit and balance so that the first two copies of the sales slip did not deprive Charlie of his due, yet allowed an increment to be placed in that favorite direction, "South".
Then there was another Charlie. He sold paper and was good at it. Later a photographer would appear, with an album, and the proof-passer, whose appearance was simply to give the lady of the house one "free picture" she was promised in the original package, which gave her lifetime benefits.
This Charlie was large and porcine in construct. Curiously, his wife and daughter were carbon copies of himself. When I would catch him, as I did many others, in some new scam, the boss would say, "It's ok, as long as they leave something for me." His rationalization, which he freely gave was "You catch me on one, I get away with two."
There are others worthy of mention in this group. One day, I will provide at least four pages, single spaced, on each one.
Now, Count Gregory was not a part of this extraordinary phyllum. In fact, he was not a Count at all. That he found his way into this group was testimony to his ability to insinuate himself into places where he did not have the price of admission.
He was sartorially elegant; he was continental in mien and a lousy proof-passer. He was a Russian and an aspiring comedian, without a writer or an agent. He had one joke which he used perpetually, an eternal play on homophones, to wit, "I am not a Russian; I am never rushing."
I did not seek his friendship, but he solicited mine. In fairness, there was no favor or advantage implied. For me, there were extraordinary encounters in the periphery of show business, of which more perhaps another time, as well.
The Count was "booked" at a relatively chic restaurant called the "Czardas", Hungarian cuisine predominating. It was, for those familiar with the continental cafe, a bistro, restaurant style, across from the "Viennese Lantern" where I was regaled frequently by a good friend of mine. We discussed business over an appetizer of Maatjes herring, followed by Wienerschnitzel, and washed down by a vintage, chilled Bordeaux
It was a Monday night, already not an augury of promise. Besides myself, there may have been three or four other people in the joint. The Count had a sort of Victor Borge routine, a few notes at the piano, followed by a joke. Of course, he included his hallmark, "I am not Russian; I am never rushing," which hit the ground like a hard-boiled egg.
Curiously enough, he had a stage presence and a charm. My guess is that with a comedy writer, he would have been as good as any, given the Angel of 'Mozel" was disposed to smile on him. Certainly, he was widely recognized in many backstage areas he brought me to as a guest. He was hailed and greeted as a Count indeed; he kissed the ladies preparing for the show on the hand, or on the cheek, sometimes requiring a touchup of the lady's disturbed facial area.
In these peregrinations I found myself at several fundraisers for a new musical, or for a play, to which the Count might be invited. They took place in the posh apartments of Central Park West, an area of which I already had intimate recollections. As a young boy, I had delivered centerpieces and orchids to the elite. As in the present cases, the address was merely an indication of class. The interiors were usually tasteless and functional for the bare necessities.
I sat through a whole musical done by a pianist and several voices. While the music droned on, a soft voiced man, balding and bespectacled told me he had information from the spheres that I was destined for greatness. He moved closer with every pronouncement. After a polite interval I moved to another area of the room, next to a lovely creature who earlier had performed a guitar solo. Somehow, she took my hand, and held it in a caressing manor. I could feel her warmth, or more correctly, her social aptitude, as she applied little squeezes at intervals. I do not recall there were many checkbooks in evidence at this fundraising gala. The Count was effusive but not forthcoming materially. I was tapped and concerned that I may not have enough resources for a couple of cocktails and such, with the charming girl, who now held her guitar in one hand and my left arm with the other.
Now that I recall, the Count had great trouble watching the fights from our ringside seat. Truly, he did not belong in this crowd. I wonder what sins he committed in his previous stay on this orb. My guess is that he was a real "Count"; maybe the one who did Rasputin in.
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